La Vie En Rose
by darthsydious
Summary: Supposedly after S4. Let's all just pretend that nothing bad happens (permanently, at any rate). Molly is safe, and Sherlock is glad. Sherlolly feels all over the place. Also french music.


_Wrote this listening to Edith Piaf's 'La Vie En Rose', and if you don't think it's the best thing ever, Sherlock dancing with Molly, singing french in her ear, then you crazy. (Tish, I love it when ya speak french)_

 _So maybe listen to 'La Vie En Rose' towards the end of reading this. Just saying. And maybe Hymne A l'amour at the beginning. It's how I wrote this..._

* * *

He couldn't explain it, the feeling that overtook him completely when he saw her.

Seeing her safe, almost drowning in her over-sized coat and scarf, the collar buttoned up under her chin. Her cheeks were red and chapped from the cold. The wind whistled between them, traffic whizzed by. Three lanes of cars and buses were between them and the whole world was a symphony.

Seeing Molly Hooper looking back at him was nothing less than bliss. It was a swell of music, it was peace, it was home.

Her smile reached her eyes. She looked away for only a moment, seeing that the traffic light had turned red, she made certain her path was clear.

He met her halfway, pulling her against him.

"Molly,"

Burying his head in the crook of her neck, he took a shuddering breath. A car behind them beeped, the driver clearly annoyed. Molly glanced apologetically at them, gently tugging Sherlock to the safety of the sidewalk.

"Come inside where it's warm," she said, leading him up the steps to 221b.

She'd received a text from Mycroft, telling her to make her way to Baker Street. Sherlock had just solved the biggest case of his career, a man more insane than Moriarty, if that were at all possible, and twice as dangerous. Molly had been sent abroad, under strict supervision of Mycroft's best men. Now, the case was over, London was safe, and Sherlock was going to pieces, for he had not received word that Molly's plane had landed.

He followed her up the stairs, faintly hearing Mrs. Hudson welcome Molly back, and that she would bring up biscuits later.

"Everything is fine," he heard Molly say. He blinked, realizing they were in 221b, and her warm hands cupped his face, thumbs gently caressing him. He leaned into her touch, sighing.

"I hadn't heard anything…" he murmured at last. "I am…glad you're safe."

She smiled up at him, soft and warm and gentle. "Take your coat off, I'll put the kettle on."

He waited until she'd divested herself of her coat and taken his, but when she passed him to go into the kitchen, he caught her by the arm, tugging her into the circle of his arms, holding her flush against him. John and Mary and Emmaline Watson were all safe. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were perfectly fine.

Sherlock had known since Molly was sent abroad how very wrong London felt. Nothing had been the same, which was ludicrous. Of course it was the same.

 _Sentiment_.

That's what it was.

He didn't know what love was, that it could feel like this, this lovely ache deep in his chest. It was better than any drug. Dear Molly in his arms, she let him hold her, hugging him back, scraping her nails gently against his neck and through his hair, soothing him.  
"I'm all right now," she murmured, reassuring him. "I'm safe. We're all safe, thanks to you."

"I'm glad you're home," he answered gruffly.

"So am I," her eyes crinkled as she smiled up at him. "Now let me go for a moment, I'm actually very hungry, I came here directly from the airport and haven't had a thing to eat since this morning."

"I'll order in," he replied. "I am surprised Mycroft did not stuff you with food."

"He said it was urgent," she answered, stepping out of his embrace, hands trailing across his middle, loath to let him go. She'd missed him too. Stepping into the kitchen, she set the kettle on its base, flipping the switch. "Anything in the fridge, or is that a silly question?"

He gave her a look, phone against his ear as he waited for the restaurant he'd dialed to pick up.

"Right, I'll see what's in the cupboards," she laughed, glad that some things never changed. It might have put her back up if the fridge had been stocked with actual food, and empty of odd experiments. In the dry-goods pantry there was always a box of Jacob's Creams or a tin of biscuits. Always just enough to tide one over while take-away was delivered. That would change soon enough, for Molly knew as well as Sherlock that she wouldn't be moving back to her old flat. They'd danced around what was between them for long enough, and while a serious discussion was due in the morning, right now, Molly was more than happy for them to just be in each other's presence.

Just as she'd done a hundred times before, she took down a plate for herself and a couple mugs. Absentmindedly, she reached into her pocket for her phone, flipped through the music and hit 'play', setting it on the counter.

Sherlock looked up, hearing music playing. Music had not been heard in the flat for too long. Not Molly's music, at any rate. Her tastes ranged from insipid pop music to French jazz. The latter was what Sherlock tolerated best, and upon hearing the crooning French singer, he realized how much he had actually missed it. The song was an old one, a classic, in fact. Molly knew the words, and while her French was terrible, Sherlock found her singing endearing. He'd missed her singing, for she sang most often when she was at ease. He watched her swaying in the kitchen, pouring tea and a snack for herself, stumbling over the French lyrics, humming where she couldn't pronounce the words.

Molly turned, about to ask if there was milk when suddenly Sherlock was there, standing in front of her. He held out his hand, a silent query. She took it, a shy smile suddenly forming. He drew her into his arms again, and this time, gently guided her around the table, past the counters and around again, his forehead resting against hers. Softly in her ear, he sang, more speaking than singing, but it hardly mattered.

Life wasn't settled yet, how could it be, after the chaos inflicted upon London? Tomorrow, Molly knew that she and Sherlock needed to talk, to seriously discuss where they were going, for it was certain that they would be sharing the rest of their lives together. For now, nothing else mattered. Both of them were safe, they were home.

The song was winding down, Sherlock reached across the counter, hitting 'replay'.

"Just once more," he murmured, and Molly decided that she had no qualms. Life would never be easy, but as they danced around the small kitchen, listening to the song Molly so often sang to herself, they finally felt as if they understood what the song was trying to convey: that life _could_ be seen through rose colored glasses so long as that was how they chose to see it, with all its ups and downs.


End file.
